


The Colour of Ice

by splunge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Johncroft, M/M, Romance, Series 3 alterations, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6524521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splunge/pseuds/splunge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks that follow the revelation of Mary’s identity, John falls into a depression, frustration, and anger. Sherlock is not helping the matter: with his constant requests for John to reconcile and Sherlock’s own siding with Mary. John finds a strange ally in Mycroft and all the deep feelings he had previously felt for the elder Holmes brother comes rushing back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading! If you have been following my previous Johncroft story, I must thank you for that as well and apologise for not updating it, but please don't worry, I'm definitely continuing it and will update it soon. As for this story, it came to me very fast and I had to write it (and I'll try to update it weekly). I hope you will like it and please, please let me know what you think. I would love to hear all of your thoughts and comments! :)

“Why you?” John asked, helpless. “Of all—everyone… _Why you_?”

His whole body shook with anger and frustration, like an instrument that had been plucked while out of tune, the vibrations were undesired. He gripped Mycroft’s arm even harder than before, his other hand clenched the man’s lapel.

The silence of Mycroft’s office met the complete quietude to be expected at the fame Diogenes Club. And although conversations were allowed in private offices and quarters of the premise, the extreme silence that ensued matched that of the rooms below.

If Mycroft was firm in his stance and believed wholeheartedly, the man would have made hints of it. He would fight until his point was made and accepted, which was one of the many reasons for the Holmes brothers’ constant quarrelling. Unless Mycroft wanted his opposition to believe otherwise, then he would act accordingly. 

Here, Mycroft was the latter: he wanted John to believe otherwise, to believe the contrary, something other than the absolute truth. So, he stayed absolutely still with neither expressions nor feelings upon his features. But John was beyond that now, because he knew how to read Mycroft Holmes. Although his skills were not truly up to one hundred per cent accuracy, as with all of anything with the Holmes, he knew enough. He knew Mycroft longer than Sherlock if he cared to admit the logistics of it. After all, Sherlock’s absence assisted in that respect. He knew Sherlock better, there was no doubt about that, but he knew Mycroft longer. In the period of Sherlock’s false death, John retaliated, confronted, swore at, punched… He also accepted and grieved. And Mycroft endured all of his antics, all of his known faults and foolish behaviours, his drunken nights and profanities. John recollected the weeks that followed Sherlock’s funeral. _Fake funeral_ , he reminded himself. He had placed so much blame on Mycroft that they weren’t speaking. In truth, he wanted Mycroft to speak to him first, to get down on his knees, to beg forgiveness for all of his wrongdoing, for killing his own brother. But Mycroft never did and that enraged John even more. 

It was a similar evening such as this, John had stormed into the Diogenes Club but was considerate enough to remain silent—although, it was not much a consideration as the inherent silence of danger and the serenity of a walking explosion. The staff eyed him with such caution he had never seen in them before; one of two uniformed men tried to grab him, but he simply raised a forefinger, gave a stare that suggested: “If you mess with me, I swear to God…” They backed down, but didn’t leave him alone. They followed him all the way down the corridor, up the stairs, until they reached the confine of Mycroft’s personal office. They found Mycroft, who nodded solemnly for the men to take their leave. John looked at Mycroft and saw the faint bruise he had left on the older man’s face during their brief encounter at Sherlock’s funeral. He didn’t say anything, instead, he walked to the whisky cabinet and helped himself to the contents. A single big gulp was followed by the second. He took the decanter with him to the sofa and poured himself another glass. He drank until he was drunk and seething in stillness; Mycroft simply watched him without letting him know that he was watching—they weren’t looking at each other. He slept at the Diogenes for the first time, in a guest room that he thought would come with an accommodation of a butler. Alas, there wasn’t and he sensed that it was Mycroft Holmes himself who had taken off his clothes and replaced them with fresh silk pyjamas, and it was Mycroft Holmes who endured his wrath and offensive language, his shit and drunkenness, wiping his spew and sick, cleaning up after all of these things that was his obscenity. That hadn’t been the last time. John did it again when Sherlock returned from his grave. And again, last night when Sherlock was rushed to the hospital for the second time and Mary’s true identity (or really, non-identity) was revealed. And on these occasions, Mycroft conducted his duties and said nothing in the same manner as he wasn’t saying anything now…

“I’m not the right person to answer such question,” Mycroft replied finally.

John was snapped back to the present. He looked at Mycroft, whose expressions didn’t betray a single truthful thought. John’s clenched fists gave a shove and then a tug. Mycroft’s body jerked back and forth. John’s breaths were heavy and grew heavier. 

With neither force nor forethought, their lips met in a single crash. 

Eyes shut. 

Their senses rushed to their conjoined lips. 

The rubbery and supple contours of Mycroft’s lips and mouth were exquisite and John consumed without thought. The sweetness was undeniable. John savoured as long as his breath could allow him. He gulped and exhaled. He shook his head with bitterness and pushed Mycroft once again. The man jerked back, but with less force than before; Mycroft had expected it, he was a Holmes after all. John loosened his grip on Mycroft’s arm incrementally. Their breaths were harsh and quick. Their eyes were focused on nothing but each other’s blue irises. 

Mycroft leaned in and brushed his lips against John’s.

John let it happen then pulled back slightly and studied him.

Their breaths were their conversation. The heat between their bodies was the topic.

John shook his head again, this time the discussion was with himself—disbelief, desperation, dissatisfaction, desire…

He conceded defeat; his head fell against Mycroft’s front, feeling the lean pectoral muscle beneath the softness of Mycroft’s suit, flesh and skin. He didn’t know when he had released Mycroft from his two grips. John felt loose and weary, and felt Mycroft’s own hands on him. The soothing touch was also a healing touch; John noticeably relaxed with it.

Mycroft shifted and started. He took John’s elbow and led him out of the office. They moved quickly down the corridor. John could hear the same desperate breaths, this time however, they weren’t his: they were Mycroft’s. They turned a corner up a flight of stairs. John could see that they were in private quarters and lodgings area of the club. Mycroft reached for an old-fashioned key that was secretly attached to his fob chain and within seconds, they were inside. 

It was a bedroom. John had seen it before. It was the bedroom in which he had found himself in the past, the room in which he had woken up after soundless and drunken nights. It wasn’t a guest room as he had previously inferred, but Mycroft’s own private room at the Diogenes Club, the very one that Sherlock had once or twice referred to. The fact that John had been in Mycroft’s bed before didn’t surprise him as much as the notion of what would be happening at this moment and from this point forward. 

Mycroft crossed the room to embrace him.

John found himself searching for Mycroft’s lips and standing on both of his toes to reach. Mycroft assisted by leaning down and offered his mouth. The air of desperation was thick and undeniable. John drew at Mycroft’s suit jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. He unbuttoned the waistcoat, the shirt, the trousers. 

Large and loud exhalations were followed by frequent gulps of breath. The room had suddenly become so warm and filled with dense haze of desires and want—this had to be the feeling when the Holmes methodological process and logic met pure absurdity. However, John didn’t assert his attention to that point. He didn’t care for any of that at the moment, none of it save for the tingling awareness of Mycroft’s warm flesh pressing against his own. John ran his hand through Mycroft’s soft chest hair and wanted to marvel at the colours and the freckles and the muscles and the skin, but his consciousness was overtook by one bewildering sensation after the other. Sights and images and smell and kisses and touch all vied for his attention and it felt as though they might overload his sensory faculty. 

A good fuck was what he needed to ease his pains—of Mary, his lying wife, of Sherlock, who was at this moment lying in hospital, still unconscious. However, at the same time, the feeling that _this_ wasn’t just that also presented itself.

On the bed, John lay on his stomach, feeling Mycroft’s hot member prodding at the small of his back. Kisses were pressed to his nape and spine. They stung his skin even when those lips had moved away to work its power elsewhere. Mycroft’s lips could draw him up like an invisible string: a press to the centre of his back had him float up like his flesh was attached to Mycroft’s mouth. 

_No_.

They had to move quick. They hadn’t the time. There was a sense of urgency and rush that stemmed from every single factor that John could think of. But when Mycroft leaned down and captured his lips, all of John’s thoughts that had begun to form all disappeared instantaneously. John succumbed to everything. His neck was attacked again. His wrists were pinned, and his body weighted down by Mycroft’s own. 

There was a moment when Mycroft gave him a look of enquiry, and John wiggled out one hand from Mycroft’s grasp and instinctively spit into it. John rubbed saliva into his hole. The ring of muscles were far from loose; he tried to relax. Another spit was followed by another massage. It was difficult to spread fully with Mycroft on top of him, but he did the best he could and shifted his knee upward to spread a bit more. 

Recognising how his position might have hindered John’s progress, Mycroft shifted back to lie on his side and observed.

The tension upon John’s own body was evident. However, Mycroft’s gentle caresses soothed it and his cock began to twitch pleasurably in response. Mycroft applied soft kisses on his shoulder—carefully at first, mindful of the scars. John’s breaths spiked and hitched. Considering it a sign, Mycroft trailed his lips up and down and kisses were pressed onto each area with intent and determination. John inserted a finger, then two, and began to pull in and out. Before he could signal or give a sign that he was ready, his wrists were pinned down again, and Mycroft resumed his position. That long, graceful rod slid between his crevice, up and down, teasing, getting ready. The cock steadied at the opening, asking for entrance. The head was round and large, John guessed it might have been bright red at the tip considering how warm it was when it poked him.

The way in which they moved conveyed more than they could ever do with words. The desperation in their breaths, in their anticipation, was a mark of wonder. They were responding to something deeper than anything and that was each other’s presence and the intensity of one another. John’s body arched towards Mycroft’s above him and at the same time, lowered to the bed, pressing his throbbing member against the cool sheets. Mycroft moved incrementally, hardly noticeable, mimicking movements that he was soon to be conducting upon John’s opening.

Mycroft pressed a kiss to John’s nape of the neck, an action that surprised John in a manner that he wasn’t expecting. He turned to meet the other man’s face and the image that greeted him also caught him off-guard. There was softness in Mycroft’s eyes that he had never seen before. John leaned forward and Mycroft leaned in. Their lips joined softly; one of Mycroft’s hands released his wrist andcame up to support John’s craning neck at his cheek.

John dropped heavily back against the bed as though every bone in his body had disappeared. And they hadn’t done a thing yet, John thought. The way in which his body was responding so intensely to Mycroft was a mystery, but one that he would have to truly deal with at a later time. Now, his brain was solely on the fact that Mycroft was pressing against his hole, ready to breach. It slid in almost too easily given that John’s saliva was the only source of lubrication. John hadn’t time to think further of this either because his breath was caught in his throat. 

Mycroft thrusted in small strokes, in and out. He put his hand on John’s hips, while his other arm came around John’s chest and locked him there. John was glad, in a way, for he had something to hold on to as the pace began to increase. Mycroft sped up and his strokes became long and deep. He alternated between deep and hard thrusts, and rapid short attacks. John’s mental capacity could not contain the ferocity that was being done to his body and the sheer passion of how it was done, because Mycroft was also pressing his lips to his neck and shoulders. John could come on this alone, just the thought of all of this and the preciseness of each action taking place in and on his body. John dug his head into the bed and breathed, he wanted to cry out and swore obscenities. But, what they were doing robbed him of all the words he could ever produce. 

John moved his hand down to touch himself, to bring himself off, but no closer had his hand reached his cock that Mycroft swiftly took it and pinned it back down to the bed. John gasped despite himself. Mycroft then captured his lips. John was lost in the sensations and slowly succumbing to everything. Mycroft’s hand then moved from his wrist to his cock and started pumping him towards completion. It didn’t take long. He spurted a long river of semen and the bed was soon slick and wet with his seed. Mycroft hadn’t ceased moving on top of him, it was barely a few seconds later that the other man followed and poured into his abused hole, all the while refusing to release John from his firm hold. They finally collapsed together onto the bed. Mycroft’s body heavily blanketed over John’s as they tried to catch their breaths.

John turned his head. Mycroft’s own was on the back of his shoulder and within reach. John hovered his nose over and breathed in the scent of Mycroft’s hair. That moment, Mycroft looked up and they found each other and each other’s lips. They kissed and sealed the night. 

 

*******

 

The room was warm and bright when John awoke. A faint stream of sunlight jetted through the cracks between the soft silk curtains. John rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He had been lying on his side, his right shoulder ached from the weight of his own body. But it was nothing that couldn’t be healed with a stretch. For a fraction of a moment, he had thought that his arm had grown limp and dysfunctional from the night’s sleep because it was so pale and almost white in colour, and it wouldn’t moved as his brain commanded it to. Then, his sleepy brain finally caught up with him. The said arm was dusted with freckles, the fingers were long and graceful. John’s eyes trailed up it and followed it back to Mycroft’s body behind him. 

The other man was asleep. 

The fact that Mycroft was wearing his robe told him that Mycroft had woken up earlier and came back to bed; John could vaguely recall that they both fell asleep soon after their… _activity_ and they had both been stark naked. An additional fact was supplied: Mycroft had gotten back to bed to hold him.

John slowly relieved weight off his right shoulder, turned, and tried not to stir the man beside him. Mycroft’s hair was disheveled and John mindlessly put a strand back in its place. He had never seen Mycroft so peaceful as he was at this very moment: there was a sort of serenity in Mycroft’s face, and John thought also that he had never seen Mycroft with his eyes closed before. The robe hugged Mycroft’s body loosely, exposing the hairs on his chest. John’s eyes fell upon them and he couldn’t stop staring. The soft skin that stretched over Mycroft’s clavicles was creamy white, the plump and freckled flesh at the base of his neck was bundled and made a large lump due to the way Mycroft’s neck was positioned upon the pillows. However, this position did not take away the refinement and stately elegance that even in his sleep Mycroft Holmes displayed. 

Before he knew it, John ran the tip of his index finger across Mycroft’s bottom lip. The finger then traced the curve of Mycroft’s jaw, cheekbone, forehead, brow, before it travelled down again to Mycroft’s chin. It ended up hovering over Mycroft’s chest, feeling the tingling sensation the chest hairs made against the tip of his finger as they prodded and needled. 

John witnessed how Mycroft Holmes wake up from his sleep. It was just as graceful as anything else the man did. First came the changes in his breathing pattern, followed by various muscle movements, then the eyes lifted. It took Mycroft shorter time to adjust and analyse his surrounding, and within a split second, his eyes were on John. 

John’s own eyes fell back down to his finger, which was still trekking through Mycroft’s chest hair. Mycroft’s eyes followed just as quickly.

Mycroft’s other arm that was trapped under John’s body came up around, tightening the hold, and Mycroft surged forward.

“Mycroft!”

A familiar voice bellowed out. 

John hadn’t the time to process. Mycroft’s warm embrace was taken away from him: Mycroft moved swiftly from the bed and such shift revealed at the door of the bedroom the figure of Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock, in his usual coat, stood rigid and expressionless. His eyes drifted from his brother to John. 

“Get dressed, John,” he said. 

“Sherlock, for God’s sakes!” John instinctively pulled up the sheets to hide his nude body. “You should be at the hospital.”

“Get dressed. Now.”

It was an order, not a request. John shot him a look, laced with annoyance and well as worry. Because, although Sherlock looked better than the day before, and certainly better than when the confrontation at Baker Street took place, Sherlock’s face nevertheless had seen better days. There were dark rings around his eyes and his lips were pale. John could see plainly in Sherlock’s eyes the pain he was trying to hide, for the uneven blinks and slight winces and grimaces came upon his face like waves. 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft started only softly, but Sherlock ignored him completely and didn’t even turn to face him.

John had a dangerous look upon his face now and Sherlock returned one in equal measure. 

“Well, you gonna bloody stand there while I get dressed?”

Sherlock’s response was a blank stubborn expression on his face.

John cocked his head and stood up. All his glory were shown for the Holmes brothers’ eyes. Mycroft had the decency to turn his gaze downward to the carpet. John held Sherlock’s look like a personal challenge. John found his clothes neatly folded on a chair sitting by the desk near the window. His earlier suspicions were confirmed: Mycroft had indeed woken up and had cleaned and cared and folded his clothes in place, and gotten back into bed with him just to hold him…

He snuck a glance at Mycroft. The man stood rigid and his head hung over his chest.

John tugged loudly at his jacket and arched his brow menacingly at Sherlock. 

“Baker Street,” Sherlock said simply and left the room.

John sighed and, upon seeing that there was nothing else he could do, proceeded to follow. He stopped in front of Mycroft and pressed his palm against the other man’s chest. He searched Mycroft’s eyes, but they were just as blank and unfeeling as his brother’s. He looked at Mycroft’s lips, his hands stroking Mycroft’s chest—a mental conversation, a request, a plea… 

_Kiss me_.

_No._

Mycroft straightened his posture and assumed distance and authority. 

John chuckled cruelly and shook his head. 

“Coward,” he said and left, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there! ;)   
> Here's the next chapter, I hope you will like it.

Baker Street was never to be their destination, for Sherlock was promptly rushed back to the hospital for the third time. The staff had been in a frenzy when they discovered they had lost their infamous patient, again, and breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock Holmes walked through the doors with John Watson in tow.

Sherlock didn’t say much regarding the compromising position he had found John in. He had only urged that John talk to Mary. John saw no reason and told him so. They were silent to one another in the following days to come. John sat by Sherlock’s bedside everyday until Sherlock was discharged and continued his nursing duties once they were back at Baker Street. Sherlock recuperated, if whatever diversion Sherlock Holmes did was considered recuperation. Mary’s belly grew as days passed and John knew Sherlock secretly visited her while he himself refused to. Not until he was ready, that was. He resumed work, taking shifts that would have him avoid Mary until she would take her maternity leave. And at the end of the day, he would go home to Baker Street. He slept in his old bed in his old bedroom. He didn’t sleep soundly, no, not since that night with Mycroft when he slept more comfortably than he had since, well, forever.

Sherlock insisted to him again, one morning, to go back to Mary. He told him to “fuck off” and regretted it. They didn’t speak much to one another after that. He grew angry with his friend, angry for siding with his lying wife. How could Sherlock forgive someone who had not only lied to them both, and to everyone, but someone who shot and almost killed him? John knew that such a lie didn’t warrant him a free pass of being unfaithful to his wife, then again, being his wife didn’t justify her a higher position than Sherlock. And most certainly, it didn’t guarantee his full forgiveness for the harm done to his best friend to save whatever she deemed was his life. After all, Sherlock Holmes was his life; _that_ , she failed to grasp. Even as John was looking at his best friend now, he couldn’t help but feeling slightly betrayed that Sherlock should so openly side with Mary when everything was working against such a notion.

_Mycroft…_

John brushed it away. He didn’t want to wallow in this train of useless thoughts. The only man he could always turn to, had always turned to despite himself and despite his own awareness of it, was no longer an option.

After work one evening, he didn’t return to Baker Street right away. He wandered aimlessly down the high street and towards the West End until he found himself in what used to be the dodgy part of Soho. John walked towards the lively bright lights and partying men. He entered a club he didn’t know the name of and ordered drinks he usually wouldn’t order. At the bar, he gulped several shots of hard liquor, followed by a pink liquid concoction that tasted too sweet for his senses. On the dance floor, men were swaying and grinding their bodies against one another. A man at the other end of the room caught John’s eye. At this distance and in this darkness, John couldn’t see much, but the man had moved closer and was smiling at him. John returned the smile with a look. John could see that the man was checking him out, looking up and down his body and licking his lips. John felt good that he could produce such a response from a stranger just by standing and drinking. The man approached him, spoke with a sly smirk about something that John couldn’t hear and didn’t bother to listen. The man didn’t look bad at all, in fact, he looked good: a strong jaw, a tall and lean body, refined and toned muscles—clearly he worked out at the gym regularly—and a wide mouth that could talk endlessly but could also do _other things_ just as efficiently. He was probably a few years younger, John guessed, and so keen as evident by the fact that he began stroking John’s arm. The man was now licking his lips more frequently than before. John merely stood there with a cool and dangerous gaze fixed upon his features. That seemed to unnerve the man, but it also enticed him at the same time. John knew how to play the game; men loved him and he knew so well how to work them and how to make them fall to their knees when he wanted them to.

Soon, the man was inching his body closer and giggling at his own jokes. He pressed the flat plane of his stomach against John’s torso and huffed his breathy giggles into John’s ear. John lay a hand on the man’s hips, stroking gently, which made the man’s head jerk back in an almost uncontrollable excitement, licked his own lips once, and turned his head towards the toilets. The man smirked, finally getting what he wanted, and hooked his finger to John’s belt loop. Their eyes connected like two predators. They hadn’t gone five paces when their path was blocked by a tall figure. It wasn’t until the flashing lights of the dance floor fell on them that the figure’s face was revealed.

It was Mycroft. 

He grabbed John’s wrist in a very tight grip and pulled.

“Hey!” yelled the man at John’s side. “Bugger off. He’s mine.”

Mycroft didn’t deign to give a response, but when the man appeared to want to make a scene, he put the handle of his umbrella to the centre of the man’s chest and said frostily, “Justin Morris, age 34, of No. 11 Harbledowm Road, Parsons Green,” this made the man’s jaw drop; it hung even wider when the declaration was followed by: “you will leave this instance, unless you want your superior Mr Spencer to be informed of the off-shore accounts you’ve set up and its relation to the decline of his firm’s yearly profit.”

If the man’s knees were shaking, John hadn’t noticed, for he was duly dragged by the strong grip on his wrist. They powered through the sea of people until they were outside the premise. The cool air greeted John’s nose, which for the past hour had been clogged by smoke, alcohol fumes, and humidity. His damp skin prickled. They walked briskly away from the loitering crowd. It was when they were far from prying eyes that John pulled away. However, Mycroft quickly snatched him by the elbow and continued on.

“Fuck off!” John yelled. The offensive language merely prompted Mycroft to tighten his already strong grip; John knew it would make a bruise. 

John tugged again, trying to break free when Mycroft slammed his body against the brick wall. That seemed to have put some senses John didn’t know he had lost back into him.

“Rendezvousing with a random stranger, a stupid prick at that. Do you think that’s wise, Dr Watson?”

“What’s it to you? Get off me!”

“Drunken pathetic mess…”

“Fuck you!”

“Did he touch you?”

“What?”

“Did he touch you? Did you let him?”

“Get off me, Mycroft!”

“And let you go back to that bastard? Never.”

Once more, John’s wrist was gripped and his body was tugged off from the wall. Mycroft dragged him to the car which had, at that moment, swerved in to park. He pushed John into the backseat and followed, slamming the door behind them.

Before John could protest and retaliate with more of his tirade of abuse, his lips were taken by Mycroft’s mouth. The force robbed him of all oxygen. Mycroft’s lips were soft and rigid at the same time. John tried to pull away, but a hand at the small of his back was preventing him from doing so. He pushed at Mycroft’s front with both palms, that too was an unsuccessful venture. He seized Mycroft’s suit jacket, clenched at them and pushed again; it only made Mycroft kiss him harder than before. Mycroft’s arms came up around him, holding him and locking him tight. There was no escape.

John’s eyes squeezed shut, not a result of disgust but a reaction of not wanting to give in. John knew he didn’t want to let Mycroft have the satisfaction. However, the insistence and the sweetness in Mycroft’s unyielding lips were contagious. John opened his eyes and saw that Mycroft’s own were closed and the lids looked like they belonged to a man determined to unravel some sort of mystery. John released the tensions in his upper body, easing the force off his hands. Mycroft pushed closer while his arms pulled John’s body in.

The need for oxygen became too great. Mycroft pulled away and panted, his breaths were hot against John’s nose and lips. John gave him the most dangerous look he could muster. Mycroft leaned in again, but John was quick to turn his head away very swiftly. He could hear the disappointment in Mycroft’s breaths when his lips instead touched the sinews of John’s neck.

“Pardon me, Dr Watson,” Mycroft began his taunt and John knew instantly that this mockery was going to sting. “Kissing for you is just a prelude to a heartless, meaningless animal fuck.” Images of their night together flashed before John’s eyes; Mycroft’s words were meant to trigger them. John’s brows crooked in protest, but no words left his lips. “Mouths are for fucking. Don’t worry, Doctor, my mouth may not be as pretty as the one belonging to the horse’s arse you’ve chosen back there, but I’ll be glad to oblige.”

The mere fact that Mycroft came up with all these colourful nouns for Justin or whatever his name was made John think. But not for long, because Mycroft dropped his head and began mouthing the outline of John’s already-firm member through his jeans. John pushed him away at his shoulder, but Mycroft wouldn’t budge. John looked up at the front seat for the first time since they entered the car and saw a dark silhouette of the driver, turning the wheel and making way through the traffic. 

“Don’t,” John warned.

Mycroft didn’t listen. He unbuttoned the jeans and, with such efficiency, slid them down along with the pants underneath; he slipped John’s cock between his lips. John panicked and looked ahead at the driver, who was either unaware of the whole ordeal or was extremely good at ignoring the essential fact that his boss was having another man’s penis in his mouth.

“Stop it,” John hissed. 

Mycroft’s arm came around him, holding him at his waist with a hand locked at his bum, pushing and guiding. Mycroft was taking him fast and ferociously, bobbing his head up and down John’s length, licking at the base and then the tip, alternating between, and sucking at his bollocks like some sort of an obscene gobstopper. John almost cried out when the tip of his cock touched the back of Mycroft’s throat. It took every ounce of his control to refuse the urge to thrust along with that exquisite and persevering mouth. Mycroft coughed slightly and the thrum vibrated from the tip of his cock to the back of his brain, making John’s fingernails gnaw at the leather seats. 

John didn’t know his eyes were closed until he opened them. Mycroft was taking him further still and he coughed again in the process. John looked and saw a drop of tear slid down Mycroft’s cheek. John placed his hand on top of Mycroft’s head and tried to pull him off, but the man was too stubborn and was gagging. 

“Stop,” John panted. And right then, Mycroft sucked hard and John cried out a loud “ohh”. Mycroft let his teeth grazed the velvety skin and bounced on John’s cock until John’s mental awareness numbed. John spilled into Mycroft’s mouth, not a single drop on their clothes nor the seat. Mycroft gulped it all down, tasting and licking clean.

Mycroft caressed John’s skin, his hands kneading the tender flesh. He licked up and down the shaft, from its base to its moist purple head. John shuddered and panted. And as he was calming and coming down from his high, Mycroft pressed soft kisses to his inner thigh, hip, pubic hair, and when John’s soft creamy skin disappeared under his shirt, Mycroft leaned for his lips instead. 

John slapped Mycroft, stopping him in his tracks. The blow landed squarely on Mycroft’s cheek. Red marks and imprint of his fingers and palm appeared quickly upon the man’s face. The stunned silence then overrode the loud smack that echoed throughout the car. John sat up and huffed a breath with irritation and anger. He had been humiliated enough. He rapped at his side of the passenger window to get the driver’s attention.

“Stop this fucking car now,” said John.

Mycroft’s arm was still around John’s waist, a hand at his hip. If John had looked up at that precise moment, he would have perhaps gotten a glimpse of Mycroft’s face and his heart might have moved towards forgiveness because of it, but he didn’t and so anger conquered him entirely.

“Let me out, here,” said John again to the driver. 

The car came to a halt. John swiftly opened the door and got out. He heard a soft call of his name, but it came to an abrupt end when he shut the door. John marched on. His eyes were still blurry from the alcohol and much more from what had just happened. He walked only a few steps and was surprise to find himself in front of 221B. He clambered up the stairs and into his room. His head throbbed and his body ached. He fell heavily onto the bed and closed his eyes.

_Why…_?

It might have been seconds, minutes, or even hours, but John opened his eyes after some time. His sense renewed by something inexplicable. He sat up. Uncertainty dissipated. His lips twitched into a smirk. He breathed and something resembling a chuckle escaped his lips. He climbed downstairs and opened the front door. He stood on the threshold and stared out onto Baker Street. There was a CCTV camera on the opposite side, its gleaming red light blinking. He lowered himself onto the floor, sat, eyes still fixed on the red light, and smiled.

And Mycroft Holmes watched the live feed on his mobile with a mixture of great sadness and curious perplexity at John’s smiling features. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The Holmeses had always been a mystery to him. With Sherlock, it was inevitable that the mystery would slowly be solved and unravelled, and that John should learn and had learned how to decipher the strange conducts and behaviours. Despite the fact that there were times he could not pinpoint the exact reason behind his friend’s actions, John could nevertheless expect the unexpected and knew it for what it was.

The case was quite different with Mycroft. The man was impenetrable. It was not dissimilar to punching through an unbreakable glass with bare hands to reach the other side. 

John had called Mycroft a coward. He meant it, despite slowly coming to regret doing so. Mycroft didn’t have the decency to owe up to what he did—how he had kissed and touched him—he simply hid away like some milksop. Then, the man had the tenacity to embarrass him in front of strangers: taking him away from his fun and proceeded to suck him off in the presence of his faceless driver. During the moments when John had been lying drunk on his bed and high from alcohol and sex, his mind cleared unexpectedly. The word at the forefront of his brain was: jealousy. Yes, Mycroft Holmes was jealous. There was no denying it. Mycroft had been monitoring him, following him, how else would he know that John would be in that club? He remembered the fury in Mycroft’s eyes, how cold and dark they were—surely, that had to be the reason why they called it the “green-eyed monster.” A smile tugged on one corner of John’s lips. In his drunken haze, he felt the need to communicate to the man that he understood, his logic was not all that great as he stumbled out onto Baker Street and proceeded to smile at the CCTV camera across the road.

And then, of course, ended the peculiar exchange by shoving his middle finger prominently out into the air. 

He didn’t remember anything much after that.

John woke to sounds of shuffling, which were magnified ten folds by his hangover. His head was aching and his temples throbbed. He lifted one eyelid and saw Sherlock shifting papers and books about. He wondered what his friend was doing in his bedroom. But upon looking around and taking in his surrounding, he found that he had been fallen asleep on the sofa.

“Mrs Hudson literally found you on her doorstep,” Sherlock said without turning to face him, and sighed. Sherlock rarely sighed. Then again, the lingering cloud of darkness never seemed to cease nor disappear. Magnussen’s presence still remained and John knew Sherlock’s mind had not rest.

Sherlock didn’t ask John to accompany him, but John nevertheless insisted that he was coming whether Sherlock liked it or not. They found themselves in a shoddy flat in East London, one of those council houses that was in more than a dilapidated state. Sherlock conversed with a man, their voices barely audible. 

“He was essential to my findings,” said Sherlock when they left the premise and strode towards the high street. Sherlock said nothing after that and they rode in a cab in silence all the way back to Baker Street. Sherlock was quiet and drew himself into one of this trances.

John sat reading a book without really looking at the words. His attention was entirely fixed on his friend. It felt as though he was losing him and it was slowly breaking John’s will. He knew it wasn’t the time to ask for attention and for sympathy, besides, he didn’t need them per se—what he needed the most was Sherlock, wanted him to be on his side. But, Sherlock wasn’t and in many ways, it was like Sherlock failed him. John felt something akin to those emotions he felt when Sherlock jumped off the roof of Barts. Moreover, guilty as well for letting himself think in such a way. 

“Sherlock?” John approached his friend, whose eyes were open but whose brain was so far away. “Is there anything I can do? Sherlock?”

After a fraction of a second, Sherlock inhaled sharply and focused his eyes on John. 

“No, not until I’m certain of his next move. Magnussen is cunning and vile all the same. He can break even the most honest of men,” Sherlock said and strangely looked into John’s face. “He will use anything and anyone to get what he wants, and what he wants is not always what he needs. He plays the game simply because he can, and there will always be casualties along the way.”

John looked at his friend. He could sense fright moving up and down his spine. He thought of Mary, what Mary had done and almost did, and closed his eyes. The mixture of worry and distrust clouded his thoughts. He wasn’t there yet—he couldn’t get himself there just yet. He needed more time. Forgiveness, he could not reach. 

“Mary’s doing well,” said Sherlock.

Those words were comfort that John didn’t know he needed to hear. He nodded gratefully and Sherlock smiled the most genuine smile he had seen from his friend thus far. That was just what he needed. The fear, the guilt, and the worry disappeared for a moment and were replaced by appreciation and gratitude. This was a good step towards mending this state of fragile instability.

Night fell and solitude met them with welcome. In many ways, John felt like he had won his friend back. Sherlock had his own unique approach and curious methods and John knew that in time, they will see the result of Sherlock’s work, whatever that might be. He had come down from his bedroom to dinner and found the flat empty. Mrs Hudson couldn’t be heard; John guessed that she might have gone out for the night. Sherlock, no doubt, was visiting Mary—it had been almost habitual for Sherlock now to visit her every other evening. John found that he didn’t mind. He was hungry, his stomach growled from the lack of food since, well, yesterday. He wanted to order in and searched his phone for a number of a pizza joint when he found another number instead. It was of course five numbers too short, and if anyone should dial it, it would be unreachable. But if he was to dial it, it would reach somewhere. He did it without thinking and waited. Two beeps were followed by five seconds of silence, then it began to ring. Three rings in and then four, there were no answer. Five, then six, and then his call was received.

“I’m hungry,” John blurted, partly to see how the other man on the other end of the line would react. There were no response. “Come pick me up.” Yet, there was no reply. John waited, then threatened, “If you won’t, I’ll find someone else to dine with.”

John didn’t register the double meaning behind his own words until the usual car with Anthea inside arrived at the front steps of Baker Street, picked him up, and deposited him off at some swanky, posh condo by the Thames. He was ushered into a palatial penthouse with ceiling height windows that overlooked Tower Bridge, Westminster, and beyond. The city lights glowed against the dark sky, making the equally bright stars barely visible. There was a bed at the centre, and a door that led to the bathroom on the far side. John was struck by the lack of a sitting room and a kitchen, for this wasn’t a hotel room and yet there was only the bed, some pieces of furniture, and the loo. 

He was ever so invested in his survey that he almost missed the leather chair and the man sitting in it. Mycroft sat by the windows covered in darkness. The soft light from a bedside lamp gave him a faintly glow. The whole effect would have looked menacing if it was a display for some person other than John Watson.

Mycroft crossed the room and latched his lips to John’s neck. John was caught off guard and gasped. Mycroft pulled him close and kissed his neck and throat. The quizzical look mixed with sudden blaze of pleasure created a comical expression on John’s face. Thankfully, most of the darkness covered any traces of it.

John pushed himself from Mycroft’s body.

“What are you doing?” he asked, furious. 

It was the most ridiculous thing to utter because he knew exactly what Mycroft was doing. But why he was doing it was a bit difficult for him to understand. Yet again, knowing Mycroft, John also recognised that there would be several hundreds or perhaps thousands of reasons for this action. He waited for an answer nevertheless.

Mycroft remained uncharacteristically quiet. 

John began to observe and analyse: a condo with only a bed, a luxurious one at that, windows that reveal rather than conceal, and an audience of millions among those city lights. John scoffed. He was cautious but willing to play the game nevertheless. He needed to break Mycroft, and if this was the way to go about it, then he would take the journey.

“Alright. If that’s what you want,” he said. “Against the windows then, eh?”

John walked towards the clear glass and turned around to face Mycroft. He could make out the soft features of Mycroft’s mouth and eyes. He took off his belt and undid the buttons. He removed his jacket and shirt, and lowered his jeans and pants down in one quick, aggressive motion. His cock stood proudly, but had not yet hardened. 

“You’re the master then, huh? Was it degrading for you to go down on me last time? It was undignified, wasn’t it? Sucking me off. And you have to make up for it. Are all the cameras pointing to these windows here? Is your driver having a full eye? You Holmeses, always in need of an audience. Go on then, fuck me.”

Mycroft’s resolve hardened very visible. The Holmesian barrier and firm exterior were up in full force. His face was blank as if unaffected by John’s words.

“This is preferable to you gallivanting about with random strangers,” said Mycroft.

“So you’re being righteous and doing this for the greater good?”

“Yes, for my brother and for your wife.”

John clenched his teeth and fists. Anger rose within him. He shot back, “Oh? Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What does it make you, then? A saint? My whore?”

“If you want to think in such a manner, I cannot stop you.”

“You’re a self-righteous arsehole, that’s what I think.”

Mycroft closed the distance between them, his body towered over John but didn’t unnerve him. Then, he dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth to John’s belly.

“Maybe, I rather have random strangers. Real men, two or three of them at a time, they would compete to suck my cock.”

Mycroft’s nibbling became too firm. John felt a surge of satisfaction from causing such an act and display of indignation, one point to his score against Mycroft.

“That will never happen,” Mycroft spoke lowly, his breaths tickled John’s skin.

“Why not then, eh?”

Mycroft didn’t reply, instead, he glided his mouth over John’s flesh, inhaling and mouthing soft hairs under his navel. 

“If you’re so worried for your brother and for my wife, you can watch and make sure nothing goes amiss. Voyeurism is your thing, isn’t it?”

Mycroft bit John’s inner thigh, tendering his flesh, his ear brushed against John penis.

John jumped before inwardly chastised himself for loosing his composure.

“Why can’t we just talk like normal human beings?” he asked. And yet, Mycroft ignored him and continued to explore John’s skin, lips gliding across the junction of John’s hips and upper thigh. John relented and yielded to that Holmesian stubbornness. He combed his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, grazing his temple, thumbing the nape of Mycroft’s neck gently, prompting Mycroft to push his head even further into John’s stomach. Mycroft’s hot breaths gathered moisture against his skin, John’s member twitched in response. 

“On the bed,” he ordered as he succumbed to Mycroft’s doing.

Mycroft got up to his feet and sauntered towards the bed. He sat and fixed his eyes on John.

“Not doing this with your suit on,” said John, shaking his head with hints of ridicule. “Take it off.”

Mycroft obeyed his command. He stood, undressed slowly with such grace and dignity that rivalled his obvious embarrassment and shame, and lay on the bed.

John dispensed the rest of his clothes—they had been lying in a pile, pooling around his feet—and joined Mycroft. He sank his teeth into the sensitive skin to the side of Mycroft’s neck. When Mycroft squirmed, John climbed on top and pinned him down forcefully by the wrists and continued his attack, pushing his weight on Mycroft’s body. He could feel Mycroft’s growing erection beneath. 

Mycroft writhed and groaned as John bit and nibbled at his neck and throat, then at his clavicle and the tender skin at the base of his neck…

John chuckled devilishly, his expression was unkind. Mycroft didn’t like this and John could see the plain truth of it. But John was determined to break him, so he did not relent.

John lifted his left hand to his mouth and began to suck on his own fingers. The look of surprise on Mycroft’s face gave him such delight. When his fingers were coated with sufficient amount of saliva, John pulled them out, reached down between their bodies, brushed them against Mycroft’s bollocks. Then, John began to poke them against Mycroft’s opening.

Mycroft jerked back. But, it did not deter John’s endeavours. He insistently wiggled the tip of his forefinger into the passage. Soon the hungry hole began to swallow his finger up to the first joint. He moved it around, loosening the ring of muscles for a moment before pulling out, spit more saliva into his hand, pressed the liquid to the opening, and continued his services. The muscles relaxed and he was allowed to go deeper. In time, his whole finger was in. 

John smirked when Mycroft began to whimper. He stole a glance at the man’s face, which was crooked and knitted at the brows. Mycroft’s mouth was hanging open, his chest heaving up and down. John pulled out, sucked the middle finger, and pushed it in along with index. Mycroft whimpered again at the double intrusion. John pushed in until both his fingers vanished.

“Hard already, are we?” John taunted and could feel the increasing heat of Mycroft’s cock against his torso. “We haven’t even started.”

“Stop…” Mycroft panted.

“You say stop, but your body is begging. Look at you, tightening around my fingers. I wouldn’t be able to pull out even if I wanted to.”

In so far, John hadn’t even moved his fingers. He simply let them rest dormant in the hot, dark passage. Then, he twisted his middle finger, searching, and, with pure instinct, he pressed sharply and firmly at the prostate.

Mycroft cried out and jerked forward into a sitting position. John had to push and pin him back down. 

“Please,” Mycroft gasped, slurring his words, “stop… I can’t…”

John eased off and gently pulled his fingers in and out, mimicking, foreshadowing…

He licked a stripe up Mycroft’s chest and bit the man’s breast. Then, he pushed himself up onto his knees, his fingers still embedded in those tight rings of muscles. 

“Spread,” John instructed.

Mycroft’s face was already covered in beads of sweat. He breathed heavily, folded his legs, bending them at the knees, and opened wide. Hot shame crept over his face and he couldn’t bear to look at John. Before he could register his own breathing pattern, John’s fingers left him only to be invaded by his saliva-coated cock. 

Mycroft cried out, a kind of yelp that John hadn’t heard before and it only served to make him more aroused. The tip of John’s penis pushed against the resisting muscles. Mycroft groaned against the intrusion. Mercilessly, John rammed hard, pushing forward until he was fully sheathed. He tried to thrust, to pull in and out, but Mycroft was contracting tight around, too tight that the pressure was almost unbearable. 

“Jesus!” John hissed. “Ease off, will ya?”

Mycroft moaned below him, his eyes were squeezed tight.

“Myc—”

Right then, John realised. He tried to pull out. However, Mycroft gripped his forearm with such force that it took him by surprise. 

“Please…” Mycroft breathed. 

John planted both hands on either side of Mycroft’s body and hovered over him. “Mycroft, open your eyes and look at me.”

It took several seconds longer than usual for Mycroft to follow. His eyes were watering and moisture gathered around his nose and cheek. John slid his hand across Mycroft’s clammy stomach and stroke carefully. 

“Relax, listen to me. Relax, here,” John pressed his hand at the base of Mycroft’s belly, fingers raking through the coarse pubic hair. “Fasten your legs around my waist and relax. Listen to my voice and keep looking at me.”

The strain and tension on John’s cock was substantial, almost too great for him to bear. He winced, breaking eye contact, which caused Mycroft’s grip on his arm to become firmer than before. His eyes flew right back to Mycroft’s. He lowered his head and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Then, he kissed his cheek, his neck, and his chest. He sucked Mycroft’s nipple, painting the nub with his tongue. He trailed open-mouth kisses across to the other nipple and sucked that too. John could feel the muscles relaxing around him. He continued to suck and kiss every spot on Mycroft’s upper body, all the areas that his mouth could reach. Soon, he was thrusting again. Slowly at first, then he accelerated. John rolled his hips, trapping and kneading Mycroft’s stiff erection between their stomachs. Mycroft’s arms came around his neck. They both were moving fast. Their lips found each other again and they kissed as John pounded in deep, hitting the prostate over and over again.

Mycroft tightened around him again and spilled. He cried out as he came, gripping parts of John’s body wherever he could lay his hands on. John didn’t slow down, thrusted in short strokes, relishing how those muscles and virgin anus feel against his hard, wet cock. He ejaculated and screamed, “Fuck!”

John collapsed on Mycroft’s body. He lay there for what seemed like hours, their sweaty skin were almost infused, sticking to one another, before he rolled himself off to one side. John continued his recuperation, his eyes were closed, his other senses heightened. The smell of sex was both pungent and sweet. 

John inhaled deeply, turned over towards Mycroft, and panted, “You alright?”

Mycroft inclined his head and said, “I deserve such humiliation.”

“Don’t say that.”

“After my conduct the last time.”

“Stop talking.”

“You are entitled to—”

“Can you ever just speak to me truthfully? Why do we have to play games all the time? You and me, we’ve never… Jesus! Despite what you believe, it’s not a meaningless animal fuck, Mycroft! Not for me!”

John stormed from the bed and to the windows.

The night was clear and glowing. He clenched his fists and stood there, marinating in silence and the sight of London. Despite being in a room some twenty stories up in the sky, he still wondered if anyone could see him in all his naked glory or if indeed there were cameras pointing directly at this room. He doubted. They were alone, he knew. He replayed what had just happened in his mind. Not his eruption and response to Mycroft’s sarcasm, but what he had done—

Mycroft had never been taken, not like that…

_Christ_ , John thought.

There was a sort of peace as well as a war within his heart. He struggled against them. He placed his hand upon the glass, feeling he could touch the city and roll it around between his fingers. John’s skin prickled, and he turned around and found Mycroft staring at him from the bed. The other man’s eyes were bright and gleaming in the darkness. Mycroft looked vulnerable and exposed, his chest bare in the air of the room, his stomach rising and falling as he breathed. A feeling of depression and guilt came over him in waves, guilt of having hurt the man who was now looking at him with a sad and innocuous expression. He had all the benefits—it was all him. And yet he blamed Mycroft for it. 

John reflected and saw his own harshness. 

Mycroft had given his own body just for John’s need of a few hours, for comfort. He had given time and ears to listen, and it was John who had taken advantage and had asked and never once gave anything back. Every time he felt a slight remote feeling of pain, he turned to Mycroft and used him. The guilt mounted and multiplied. 

Mycroft’s eyes didn’t leave him and John wanted to turn away. But he couldn’t. The innocence on Mycroft’s features was unlike anything John had ever seen upon the man and conversely to his initial intention, it broke him instead and in ways he could never explain.

John sighed and turned away, breaking their eye contact. He stared off into the far distance and wondered where would he go from here.

Hands came around him from behind and pulled him into an embrace. Mycroft had risen from the bed just to circle his arms around John’s chest and belly, pulling him into his body. He placed his lips on John’s shoulder and nestled his head in the crook of John’s neck.

“Is sex with me humiliating for you?”

The answer he received was silence and a firmer embrace.

John could feel the remnants of semen on Mycroft’s stomach being rubbed into the small of his back. They hadn’t even cleaned up yet. The wet sensation instilled John with comfort rather than distaste. It was either Mycroft didn’t care or he had forgotten.

John disentangled himself from the embrace. He walked into the bathroom, picked up a hand towel, rinsed it with warm water, and came back in.

Mycroft stood uncharacteristically with his head hanging low resting upon his chest. His eyes shot up when John had reentered.

John dabbed the towel over Mycroft’s stomach, wiping away the residue, and then reached around to clean the man’s behind. Mycroft kept his head down, and turned from one side to the other to avoid meeting John’s gaze. A faint blush appeared around his cheeks and goose pimples covered his arms.

However, Mycroft was inspired to rise from his embarrassment. He quickly grabbed John’s wrist before he could walk away. He snatched the towel from John’s hand, folded the soft cotton cloth and cleansed John’s stomach with the unused side. 

John watched without saying a word. After they were done, he left for the bathroom again to wash the towel and clean up. There was a sense of ease that came to appease those storms of thoughts in his mind. He observed Mycroft and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” John ordered and motioned towards the bed. 

Mycroft obeyed and John noticed that the man favoured one leg over the other as he walked. Mycroft stood right in front of John with his head still down and with gentleness bordering on shyness. The drastic change in Mycroft’s conduct unnerved John greatly. He reached out carefully with his hand and caressed gently as if the man would shatter if he was too rough. He kissed Mycroft’s front, near his navel. Mycroft trembled, but he didn’t turn away, instead, he pushed closer to John. 

John caressed Mycroft’s buttocks and lightly massaged them. He glanced up as Mycroft looked down. Mycroft’s skin was too warm to the touch. Those muscles had never been stretched like that. John inhaled the hairs on Mycroft’s stomach and didn’t stop touching him. He thought and concluded that indeed, before tonight, Mycroft had never had anal sex before.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, guilt-ridden.

“No,” Mycroft replied softly.

“Liar.”

John pulled Mycroft closer to continuing kissing that soft, creamy body. 

Mycroft had to settle his knee on the edge of the bed between John’s legs at his crotch, brushing lightly against John’s flaccid penis, in order to balance himself. He winced a little from the awkward position and the strain it was having on his sore behind. John soothed with gentle rubs against his flanks.

Mycroft’s hand slowly found its way to the John’s nape. Gentle strokes were punctuated by absolute tenderness. Conflicts seemed to be playing out like live theatre upon Mycroft’s face. John could see it, but was too invested in the intimacy of touching Mycroft that he failed to analyse. Mycroft was fighting his desire, at the same time, summoning his own courage to take action while battling his volition and hardening his firm stance against displaying behaviours that were deemed out-of-order. Finally, he asked, “Will you spend the night with me?”

John looked up, eyes gleaming and then he smiled bright and full. He replied, “Of course,” and pulled Mycroft’s body unto him until they were fully flushed against one another. How John’s smaller body could exhibit such strength that it could hold all of his form Mycroft did not know, and he didn’t aim to question it. His will and mind were clouded with John Watson. All of his senses were experiencing John and only him: smell, touch, sight, sound, and taste.

John lay Mycroft down carefully on the bed, so careful as though the man in his arms was the most delicate being. He ushered half of Mycroft’s form over him. “Lie on your side, so you won’t put pressure on your anus,” he said. Mycroft grimaced with embarrassment. John swung his arm around, supporting Mycroft at his shoulder, and pulled the other man’s leg by the crook of his knee.

“Put your leg over mine,” he instructed.

The result was that of Mycroft’s flaccid member being trapped between his body and the area just under John’s hips. John began to brush his fingers over Mycroft’s face while his other hand was neatly placed at Mycroft’s bottom resuming the earlier massage. Mycroft lay his head on John’s chest, pressing his cheek against John’s skin. He tightened his embrace and John responded in kind.

Then, suddenly, Mycroft jerked up.

“I’ve failed to remember that you have not eaten yet,” said Mycroft. “And I have demanded your strength when you have very little to begin with.”

John couldn’t help but arch his brow and then he chuckled at Mycroft’s sudden formality and too-polite words. It prompted Mycroft to give him such an enquiring look, laced with shyness and embarrassment. John’s fingers continued to trail over Mycroft’s face and brushed firmly over his lips.

“I didn’t neglect your need, however,” Mycroft gestured towards the table that stood in darkness on the other side of the room. “I’ve requested supper to be brought up prior to your arrival. It completely escaped my mind when we…”

Mycroft stopped himself, returned to John’s chest and dug his head into John. John kissed softly on top of his head and said, “Thank you.” The words were loaded with everything. He meant so much more than Mycroft could ever comprehend, even with that brain of his. 

The air became cooler as the night approached dawn.

John had fallen asleep but regrettably for only a few hours. He regained consciousness to pull the duvet up a little more around him. He reached around. The manoeuvring was too easy. The comfortable weight was gone. He turned and readjusted his focus, and found the other side of the bed empty. He sat up and surveyed the room. His clothes had been folded and neatly placed over the back of the chair beside the table on which his supper still sat, but he couldn’t find Mycroft’s clothes. There was a moment of slight panic and gloom. He called out Mycroft’s name and didn’t receive a response. John’s mind raced. The first was that he had overestimated the worth of his conduct, that Mycroft had ran away as a result of it. His head fell into his hands and he massaged his temples roughly.

The door opened suddenly. Anthea entered without reservations and with all smiles.

“Good morning, John,” she greeted.

Slightly alarmed, John pulled the duvet up a bit to hide his exposed torso. 

“Mr Holmes had been called into an emergency meeting. He extends his apologies,” Anthea informed. 

“Right,” John said and sighed with a small fraction of relief. Yet, he was not yet calmed. “You didn’t need to be here just to tell me that.”

“Mr Holmes instructed me to take you home when you wake.”

“I could have managed by myself.”

“I’m sure you could.”

John scoffed at her playful sarcasm and sat up right. He rubbed his eyes and temples again. He had been sleeping on his arm and the weight of Mycroft’s body still lingered on his shoulder. Anthea handed him his clothes and left him to wash up. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to wait until Mycroft returned.

However, he knew that was a ridiculous notion.

The car dropped him off at Baker Street. Everything looked so ordinary in comparison to what he had experience. He wanted to see Mycroft more than anything, to talk to him, to look at him, to touch him and feel his skin underneath his fingertips. He began to worry when, after three days had passed, Mycroft still had not contacted him. John grew agitated. He was filled with worry. He called that illusive number only to be answered by Anthea with an assurance that Mycroft was well. No further explanation was given.

After five consecutive days of silence, John took an afternoon off from his shift at the clinic and marched down to the Diogenes Club. He spent several minutes loitering outside, throwing looks up at the windows above. He chided himself for being a hapless clot and left, walking aimlessly into St James’s Park. He stood on the Blue Bridge and stared at the lake below.

Ducks were swimming leisurely, quacking at tourists feeding them crumbs from stale bread. Behind him was a gorgeous afternoon view of Buckingham Palace, and in front, the London Eye stared back at him from behind lush green trees and governmental buildings. Surrounded by England’s royalty and her government, John had never felt so engulfed by her. And his heart still whispered, “ _Why you_?” 

He knew the answer to that already. Had always known it. It had been planted long before anything, since that night in that remote warehouse when he saw Mycroft’s sly face looking back at him, before he began fighting crime with Sherlock, before he had fallen in love with Mary, before all the things that were happening were the way they were. 

A swan flapped its wings against the water and snapped John from his thoughts. Perhaps if he had discovered his own feelings earlier, none of this would happen. John gathered his strengths, no more skulking around and wasting precious time. He would march right into the Diogenes Club and demand that he see Mycroft Holmes. And if Mycroft was not in, he would wait until he get to speak to the man. John pushed himself off the balustrade he had been leaning upon and with newfound determination proceeded back towards the Diogenes Club. Of course, the journey was cut short because John quickly collided into a tall figure that was his heart’s desire. 

Mycroft pulled him close, cupped his jaw and kissed him. The kiss was drawn out, long and hard, desperate and sincere. A hand at the small of John’s back was pushing him in so that those long arms could coil around him. John fell into the sensation quickly, but at the same time, was keenly aware that they were in such public location. He pulled back after a moment, and Mycroft let him. He saw at the end of the bridge a man in slick suit, sunglasses, and an earpiece, and behind him at the other end, another similarly dressed man. They were Mycroft’s bodyguards. However, Mycroft would never travel with bodyguards unless he was going to a formal function, some events related to her majesty’s government, or when an important or pressing matter was thrusted upon him. Before John could ask, Mycroft hooked a hand to John’s elbow and guided them away from the park, crossing the mall, and back in the direction of the Diogenes Club. It was quite a considerable distance. John was utterly surprised that a car didn’t pick them up. He glanced back and indeed the two men were following them, guarding them. He turned to Mycroft, whose face was grim and cold. Mycroft didn’t speak a word and John didn’t either. They entered the club, the guards stayed outside, and headed towards the grand staircase. A feeling of déjà vu came over John, how very like the first time he had been dragged through the Diogenes Club and to Mycroft’s bedroom above. They had reached the second floor when John halted, turned Mycroft around, and nestled his body into Mycroft’s arms, pressing his forehead against the side of Mycroft’s neck.

The storm in Mycroft seemed to have calmed. The acceleration of his blood were slowed by John’s comfortable presence and embrace. John could feel these things so prominently. His heart, too, were racing. However, the main concern at the forefront of his mind were the men who had been guarding Mycroft. It was indeed strange even for Mycroft Holmes to have guards when they were within the heart of her majesty’s government and most importantly within the vicinity of the Diogenes Club. John wasn’t a stupid man and his weighted concerns for Mycroft’s own safety prompted him to question the guards’ presence.

“Who are those men?” John asked simply. Mycroft sighed and tightened the embrace. “Why were they following you? Mycroft?”

“We have deemed it necessary to increase security. It’s just a precaution, that’s all.”

“Were you threatened?”

“No.” 

John shot Mycroft a look that caused Mycroft to quickly add, “I assure you. I have not been threatened.” John wanted to press on further and ask Mycroft where he had been, what he had been doing. But the lines between Mycroft’s brows and the dark rings under Mycroft’s eyes were proof of difficulties possibly beyond John’s own comprehension, and if they had affected Mycroft Holmes to such degrees, he would rather leave them than to press on and worry the man even more. John reached up and kissed a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s throat. If he could repay the favour and provide comfort in return, he would not hesitate and was more than glad to do so. Together, they walk towards Mycroft’s room. They undressed quietly, eyes didn’t leave one another, and lay on the bed together, touching, kissing, exploring like they had not seen each other in years. The sun began to set and the moon loomed out of the darkness. Night fully took over and they both marvelled inwardly at the fact that they hadn’t even begun intercourse. They were so immersed in their exploration of one another that sex hardly mattered. In fact, it didn’t matter at all. They needed each other and nothing else. Mycroft soon fell into a deep sleep and emitted light snores, last sure signs of exhaustion. John watched him through the night, just looking at him—the way his mouth was slightly ajar, his lips parted as he slept, the ways his hands splayed on John’s stomach and his fingers curled. At one point, John became so obsessed, so fixated with Mycroft’s bare skin that he pried the duvet and uncovered that lean body underneath. John stared for a moment at Mycroft’s soft and long member which was draped over the inner thigh; the subtle contrast between Mycroft’s creamy white skin and his coppery pubic hair against the backdrop of a soft downy duvet and bedsheets, and almost-pink velvety cock had John’s heart thumping against his chest. John traced his finger lightly over the hairs and skin. It might have created a tickling sensation but it didn’t wake Mycroft from his well-deserved sleep. John circled his finger around Mycroft’s stomach and glided across his long chest, up towards the base of his throat.

John replaced the duvet back over both their bodies, but didn’t cease his observations. He lost track of time and before he could register the present, the sky began to glow. John glanced over his watch and found that it was some minutes into the hour of five. He had been up all night. He lulled himself to sleep despite that he felt so unwilling about the whole prospect. John woke a few hours later. The room was now truly basking in bright yellow and gold. John looked over at Mycroft, who was still asleep. It was almost eleven o’clock in the morning. This made John wonder if Mycroft had ever woken up this late before. Yet again, he didn’t want to wake him. So peaceful was Mycroft, the image made him smile although ruefully. He ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair ever so carefully. Before he could protest against himself, he pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. The sweet smell of Mycroft’s skin and sleep excited John’s senses. He moved further down and caught the man’s lips. Soon enough, Mycroft opened his eyes. John, however, didn’t stop his intrusion. His mouth floated across Mycroft’s faces, kissing every part, and then began to nibble and kiss Mycroft’s neck and ears. Mycroft surged forward, looming and hovering over John’s body; then he nestled his head and body against John’s, climbing over him, lying on top of him, embracing, clinging and nuzzling like a child to its mother. John held him tightly and declared that he would never let Mycroft out of his sight ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I've been editing this chapter for a few weeks now because I thought it was too long and too soppy! Anyways, I ended up keeping most of the things in and hopefully it works. Please do let me know what you think, any comment is appreciated. And as always, thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

John could remember the number of freckles on Mycroft’s right shoulder. He could identify the moles on Mycroft’s stomach and thighs. If a contest was to be held, he was certain he would win first prize. For he was the true conquerer and prided himself in this triumph. There was one particular spot that he was so fond of and was absolutely convinced that no other human being had ever had the honour to have a glimpse: a lovely light brown patch of smooth skin to the left side of Mycroft’s belly near his hips in a shape that almost resembled England herself. John chuckled inwardly when he made this realisation and proceeded to kiss it and did so every time he had the chance. He didn’t tell Mycroft of his fondness for his mole. That would have been barking mad and Mycroft might dismiss him entirely for his witless obsession, so John kept it to himself. This privilege of being allowed to explore the body of such an enigmatic being brought on a sense of entitlement bordering on smugness; it was fuelled further by Anthea when she commented to him that, although Mycroft was still the stern and stoic man she admired, she had never seen Mycroft Holmes so gentle and calm until these past few days. Anthea’s revelation alighted John’s sense of achievement, so John had to allow himself to suffer through Sherlock’s sharp jabs to dissolve his own growing vanity and tone down his own smugness. The jabs were, thankfully, were initiated by some other unrelated and mundane matters rather than a direct accusation of his affair with Mycroft. 

In the few weeks that followed, John spent almost every other night in Mycroft’s company. John didn’t want to press Mycroft, secretly testing himself whether he could spend time with him without having to resort to sex with the man every single time they meet. The result was more than satisfying. They simply talked, silently relaxed and revelled in each other’s presence. The tenderness between them was something that John had never thought he could feel before. He regretfully recalled that night when he, to put it mildly, forced himself upon Mycroft and even though the other man didn’t let him go when he tried to stop himself, he nevertheless felt the need to make amends. He also knew right then: he would never want to hurt Mycroft ever again and he would also do everything in his power to keep the man safe and protect him from all harm.

There were times when he could see the toll Mycroft’s work had on him through the puzzles in Mycroft’s eyes when he had one, or several, to deal with. John didn’t ask or urge to talk about the matter. He simply stroke Mycroft’s hair and let the man rest his eyes with his head slumped on his shoulder.

One night, just after Sherlock and he had returned from solving a minor case for Scotland Yard, John found Mary sitting in his chair. The sight of his estranged wife had his heart pounding with both wonder, curiosity, anger, love, and every other emotion in between. Sherlock greeted her with a kiss on her cheek as though they hadn’t seen each other just the day previously. Perhaps this was how Sherlock greeted Mary now, John wasn’t sure. 

John immediately discovered that his brows knitted on their own accord. He thought his face might have assumed an irate state because Mary quickly had her mask up in place—a blank, emotionless, unaffected expression. Her belly had grown since he’d last seen her; she looked great and amazing and beautiful and this was a sight of the woman he fell in love with. However, John’s brain quickly supplied that he had fallen in love with a lie. Although, it was good to see her, even just briefly because Sherlock ushered her down the stairs, saying that they have some quick things to discuss and that he would take her home, it was also heartbreaking all the same.

The mountain of responsibilities to Sherlock, to Mary and their unborn child, and to Mycroft gave John the monstrous task of catering to everyone’s happiness. In retrospect, John thought of his own happiness. Why did he have to take into account others’ feelings when they had not even thought about his own? He knew, had always known it since the very first day, that he was happy in Sherlock’s company, running along-side his friend, fighting criminals, solving crimes. Most importantly, he was happy antagonising Mycroft Holmes, prodding him with cheeky comments and biting comebacks, taking care of him when no other person on the face of the earth could. If he chose Mycroft, he could lose Sherlock and the baby to Mary, but if he chose Mary and their child, he would lose Mycroft forever.

John fell onto the couch and sighed. He stared up at the ceiling and his mind wandered aimlessly. He wanted to see Mycroft again, and he chastised himself for this. He didn’t want a feeling of dread to prompt his need to see the man who had come to mean so many things to him. He didn’t want Mycroft to be just a person he turned to when he was unhappy with his wife and with Sherlock. And although the events in these past few weeks had already proved to him that Mycroft was more to him than an on-called therapist, he still wanted to prove to himself further that heartaches resulted from others’ doing should not be the sole reason for his need to see the man he loved.

Yes, John loved Mycroft. He loved him more than his heart was willing to admit. The feeling had been there since he knew the man. But for these past days, it had grown double and triple its size. John didn’t want to wallow in this self-indulgently sentimental feeling nor did he want to mope around. So, he started for the door and left Baker Street.

John went to a pub, got himself an unsatisfying drink, and left just after five minutes. He walked along the river and watched the city lights. It was a cool night and his jacket were too thin and light to shelter him from the piercing cold breeze. The walk was not all that dissimilar to the ones he took before he met Sherlock where each step was a step towards an impasse. There was a slight apprehension that he had fallen back into that hideous cycle of self-hatred and pity. He leaned his back against the railings and stared upward at the stars above. Crossing his arms, he sighed and watched his breaths formed clouds of white smoke in the darkness. His neck made a creaking noise when he levelled it. In the distance, he saw the black car that he had grown to know so well slowly making its way down. It stopped at the kerb. A figure climbed from the back passenger’s door and walked towards him.

John stood there, just waiting, his heart pounding.

Mycroft, all clad in his three-piece suit that looked almost like an armour—and perhaps it was Mycroft’s own layer of protection against the world, John thought—stopped in front of him. His eyes were soft and soothing, but his lips were straight and unsmiling. Mycroft took off his coat and swung it around John’s shoulders. He cupped John’s face with both of his hands, transferring warmth to the ice-cold flesh.

The sweet scent of Mycroft’s coat hugged his whole body, and his dampened spirits were lifted gradually. He looked into those hard, penetrating eyes with his own soft ones. He could feel the hardness of Mycroft’s stare and tried to alleviate it. Mycroft was unmoved. His stern face transformed John, threatening him in some peculiar way. John caressed Mycroft’s hand, they were still glued to his cheeks, with his own. He turned his head to kiss gently at the exposed wrist. The gesture caused Mycroft to blink away his severe expression. John stepped closer and pulled Mycroft forward by his waist. He put his lips against Mycroft’s chest, kissing through the thick fabric of wool and cotton. Mycroft’s hands slipped from his face to his body, clasping together and locking behind John’s back. There was too much distance between them nevertheless. John tried to rectify this, but to no avail, because Mycroft wouldn’t come any closer.

“I’ll take you back home,” said Mycroft. “To Baker Street.”

John trembled despite himself. He didn’t want to leave, not just yet. There was a moment of struggle when Mycroft tried to usher them back to the waiting car and John tried to pull back.

“Wait,” said John. “Can we talk?”

“I do not believe this is a good time.”

“This is as good as any.”

“Not now.”

“Why not? Have you been threatened again?” John didn’t see any bodyguard following Mycroft, so he guessed that wasn’t true. Mycroft confirmed this with a shook of his head. “Then, why can’t we talk? Here, now.”

“I do not want to hear what you have to say,” Mycroft said, a little too bluntly, which in turn told John that the statement was a forceful one that Mycroft did not mean nor intend to make.

“Do you know what I’m going to say?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me. What am I going to say?”

Mycroft looked at him with such a look that was utterly too soft to belong to Mycroft Holmes. It was also too much of a contradictory to the annoyance and bluntness Mycroft had been trying to convey.

“What am I going to say, Mycroft?”

“Something that will only lead to disappointment.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because I know it to be true.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“You are. This time. You’re wrong. Christ, Mycroft! You know how I feel… I mean, you must know how I feel.”

“I am incapable of—”

“Of what?”

Mycroft frowned and began to step back slowly. John clung on, pulling him by his lapels.

“I refused to let you go, Mycroft. No one can decide what I’d do. Not even you. It’s me who decides. I’m not a pawn in anyone’s game despite what they may think of me. If I am a fool, then I’m only a fool in one respect and that is I was too stupid to realise the real thing when it had been in front of me the whole time.”

“You must do the right thing. What you’re about to do is not.”

“You’re talking to me about what’s right? You, of all people?” John scoffed derisively. “Fine, fine. This is what is right for me: YOU.”

Trying to maintain some measures of control and not crumble so visibly, Mycroft widened the space between them. John assessed the sight before him and could see it clearer than before, right back to the first time in that damp warehouse. The space between them gave Mycroft power to control the whole room and the situation. It had been the case in all the occasions that they met. Being close to an opponent gave Mycroft a disadvantage and render him the inability to see, observe, analyse the whole of the enemy, the environment, the situation at hand. Being close to John made Mycroft succumb to his own desires, to his own passion, to his very own self. Since John had last seen him, Mycroft had retreated back into his protective walls. There was a crack in that wall now and John knew he would have to take down the whole thing all over again. 

“You have to go back to Baker Street.”

“No, I don’t.”

But, John too was experiencing his own defect, his own obstacle. He could not put into words all that he felt when this very moment was the most crucial time to do so. When words flew to him so easily while addressing and describing a case with Sherlock, blogging about their adventures and mysteries of murders and deaths and vile criminals, when words were so abundant when he told stories after stories to fellow rowdy soldiers and to console patients in their hours of need, they were meagre here. John could not will himself to say what was so full to a brim in his heart.

John’s hands were still clenched at Mycroft’s lapels. He fisted them harder and swore he could see his white knuckles glow in the dark. 

“Please,” he begged. “Please don’t do this.”

Mycroft said nothing, broke eye contact, and began to usher John towards the car. John went, almost like being in a trance: his soul was being forced down in his body, trapped there while his limp body were taken control by an outer force. He didn’t know how long it took them to arrive back at Baker Street. He didn’t know how he had reached the sitting room. He didn’t know when Mycroft had left. How very little he felt about anything: he couldn’t even fathom how it was possible to not feel anything. The only proof of having seen and talked to Mycroft was the coat, still wrapped around his body.

Morning came upon Baker Street with a loud clang. 

John would have made some sort of remark about the noise, but the thought of scolding Sherlock wasn’t a great prospect as it had been to him in the past. Mrs Hudson did his job for him instead as she set up the table for breakfast. John sat silently in front of his boiled egg, toast, and tea. He ate his food without savouring. He drank his tea without relishing its nourishment and how it always soothed his throat in the early morning hours. Of course, his companions noticed his uncharacteristic silence but they made no mention of it.

“Why Mycroft?” asked Sherlock when Mrs Hudson had left the room with the tray of their finished meal.

“What?”

The question snapped John out of his silence. He looked at his friend, who was in his gown and was now lying so carelessly on the couch. 

“You could have slept with anyone. Why Mycroft?”

“Are you seriously asking me this?”

“You’re married.”

“It wasn’t a marriage.”

“You chose Mary. You married her.”

“Well, I was fucking wrong, weren’t I?”

Sherlock went silent for a moment before coming back with, “You’re not wrong.”

“Why are you siding with Mary?”

“I’m not siding with anyone.”

“Why the sudden belief in the sanctity of marriage?”

“It’s a concept you uphold. I therefore cannot fathom why you would not keep such a promise you have made to the woman you have chosen, to the woman you love. I do not understand this.”

“So, this whole thing where you’re all friendly with Mary is because you believe that I should uphold my part in this so-called marriage?”

“It’s not just that. Mary is my friend too, John.”

“Right.”

“But that’s not the point. I want to understand this. Why you of all people would break a solemn promise?”

“Why? Because the whole thing was a sham to begin with. The whole thing was one big lie.”

“I lie to you. Constantly.”

“Well, that’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“Because you were honest to me right from the start. You’re honest about the fact that you’re you, but she’s not. Do you not see it, Sherlock?”

“You never break a promise, John.”

“I disappointed you, is that the point?”

Sherlock thought for a moment and admitted, “Yes.”

“For a genius, you’re incredibly thick, y’know that? I would’ve never broken my promise to Mary if she hadn’t lied to me in the first place. It had me question whether I had fallen in love with her or with a facade. And the most important thing is she almost killed you.”

“She saved my life.”

“No, she shot you to save herself. That’s selfish and cruel. Sherlock, if anything should ever happen to you… I already lost you once and I’m not going to lose you again. Alright?”

The outburst and outright declaration of his love for Sherlock shocked him momentarily but didn’t surprise him one bit. His earlier sorrow was forgotten amongst this frenzy with Sherlock. 

“Pack your bags, John.”

John gave him another look, this time it was lined with bafflement.

“We’re spending Christmas at my parents’ house.”


	5. Chapter 5

The train moved steadily through a banal suburban neighbourhood that gave way to a dull countryside. The Holmes residence was not so very far away that a car travel would not suffice. However, John was grateful that they had opted for the train; he didn’t want to drive and Sherlock’s driving would have drove him mad. In addition to his preference of travelling by rail, John also had the excuse that came along with this mode of transport to stare off into the distance without having to converse with Mary, who was sitting opposite him and next to Sherlock. He also even had the excuse to “stretch his legs” occasionally and walked to the end of the carriage in order to find solace for himself.

Mary didn’t comment on the obvious unharmonious and almost acrimonious feeling between them. Her face was deadpan to the point of cold impassiveness. And John could no longer subject himself to the treatment he knew he didn’t deserve it at all. But no matter how he felt, he needed to do the right thing. Mary needed protection. Her past, whatever it was, had placed her present at risk. How could he be so inhuman as to leave her on her own? And with their unborn child? John wasn’t a ruthless and heartless man. No matter how hard he tried to be unsympathetic towards Mary’s “reasons” for her deception, he nevertheless couldn’t make himself abandon her. He weighted all that he knew so far. Leaving Mary to whatever danger that may come wasn’t an option. He loved her and that should be more than enough of a reason to forgive her. 

Forgiveness wasn’t beyond his reach of course, but he would try to prevent himself from grabbing it and dispensing it at his pleasure. For John, forgiveness needed to be earned, especially when he loved that person more than his heart could ever reveal. They must earn it. He had put Mary through months of his wrath of silence, an ordeal that no doubt was uneasy. Surely, that should be enough for her to earn his forgiveness and win back his love?

Before he could answer that very question, he rapidly rediscovered that it had been even harder to forgive Mycroft. When Sherlock supposedly died, it took a physical toll on him to pull himself from his pit of darkness and to seek out Mycroft. Although that initial aim of seeing Mycroft was to berate him for what he had done. And it took him ever longer to utter his first word to the man. During those times he had found himself in Mycroft’s presence, he remembered them being in absolute silence, then it turned into a tirade of drunken abuse. It wasn’t until their very first night together, the night John couldn’t bear it any longer from all the lies and deceits the people around him had created, that he truly forgave Mycroft for his involvement in Sherlock’s deceit. The time it took and the road in which that time had travelled told him that he was angry with Mycroft more than he had been even with Sherlock himself. With Sherlock, he had held on to that anger and then released it quite quickly and physically by lashing out and attacking the man, and found himself forgiving that ridiculous friend of his so willingly afterwards. However, with Mycroft, it took days and months and years. John knew that it was so because the feeling he had for Mycroft was complicated, sincere, and true. He was reminded of a saying that the more you love a person, the harder it was to forgive—or something to that effect. And indeed, he could not and did not want to deny that he loved Mycroft more than he could ever put into words. It was a ridiculous notion, everything: the timing, the person, the state of being, everything goddamn thing.

Despite that, he refocused his thoughts: Yes, Sherlock and Mary had won him over. They had endured his wrath, whatever form it might have taken in accordance to the person it was inflicted upon—for Sherlock, it was physical, for Mary, it was silence. They both came through and he forgave them entirely. He forgave Mary and didn’t care about her past anymore, all he knew was it was now his duty to protect her. It was the four of them now: Sherlock, Mary, the baby, and himself.

John thought about Mycroft again. He had made a promise to himself that he would never let Mycroft go, but what he had decided would certainly be that. And how could he live up to his declaration when Mycroft himself kept his distance?

John took out his mobile and made a call. He waited until it was answered. John could hear that familiar sound of breathing coming from the other end of the line. He waited, just listening and taking in the presence of the man. How comforting it was, how soothing and incomparable and right… It took John all the courage to utter the first few words. He did it with his eyes closed so that it would be just him and Mycroft.

“Are you listening?” he asked. “Because I want you to hear it. I don’t want to do it over the phone, but I have no choice.”

John listened and could imagine Mycroft holding his mobile up to his ear, his face expressing the same sorrow and fears as John was expressing at this very moment.

“I love you,” said John.

The words didn’t echo nor linger. They evaporated into the air, into the silence, dispersed into the ether. John leaned his head back against the door of the carriage, his eyes still closed.

Towns and fields and rows of houses passed by at great speed, blurring together, blending into a smear of colours. John was travelling further and further away from Mycroft and at the same time he could feel him burning and bleeding into his fingers and palm and hand through the mobile like some sort of molten liquid fire. John imagined himself taking Mycroft by the hand and led him into his arms and holding him there in an everlasting embrace. 

“ _John_ —” Mycroft’s voice, so small, so faint and so very far away at the other end of the line, was interrupted by Sherlock who had come to take John back to their seats.

The train pulled into the station just minutes later and soon they were travelling by car towards the Holmeses’, driven by none other than Mr Holmes himself who had met them at the station and proceeded to be their chauffeur.

“Dad enjoys driving,” said Sherlock when John had suggested that he should take the wheel instead. The banausic answer from Sherlock’s lips coupled with the normality in behaviour and conduct towards his very normal and lovely father led John to think that perhaps he had fallen into a parallel world. The subdued and all-too-regular Sherlock Holmes here created a striking contrast to the frantic and manic Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. Additionally, given what had just happened on the train, it was a wonder at all that John hadn’t thought he had truly fallen into a limbo of some kind. Another strange sort of awareness came upon him as they drove through the gates of the property: he was about to be invited to have further glimpse into the private lives of the Holmes brothers. John knew he was the one and only true link between the outside world and the world of the Holmes. No one had ever made such a connection—even if they knew the parents, they didn’t know the children, and if they did know the children, they didn’t know the parents.

Here, right before his eyes, stood a lovely elderly couple: the lady was gentle and wearing a simple floral dress and a bright smile upon her face while her husband sported a knitted jumper and a mischievous and knowing smile that was directed only at his loving wife. 

Mrs Holmes welcomed them, gave Mary a peck on the cheek, hugged Sherlock too long for the man’s own liking, hugged John tenderly as if he was her own, and began to guide them not towards the sitting room but right past it and into the kitchen, where laid upon the table was a feast that could easily feed the whole village.

“Who’s going to eat all this? Fatty’s not here to finish it all, y’know.” Sherlock remarked.

“Don’t be unkind!” Mary chided with a chuckle, which Sherlock returned with a smirk. The private joke at Mycroft’s expense didn’t go well with Mrs Holmes and although she openly reproved Sherlock’s statement with a look, there was nevertheless some level of mirth in her eyes at her son. John had been ignoring the exchange and was focusing on a picture that sat on a small bookcase that housed all the cookbooks and miscellaneous kitchen items; it was a picture of a young and dashing Mycroft with a teenaged Sherlock. His heart was beating faster and faster the more he looked at the picture.

“Your brother is coming, don’t you worry about that,” said Mrs Holmes.

This made John’s heart skip a beat and lurch. He could sense Sherlock’s indirect gaze upon him.

“Yes, I figure he would,” said Sherlock.

John felt numbed. He didn’t know about this. Mycroft’s presence was not talked about and John had assumed that it would be just a gathering between them.

“He couldn’t resist his own curiosity at my irregular invitation,” Sherlock continued.

It was moments later when they had a chance to escape for a moment that John took Sherlock aside. He needed to get a clearer picture of what was happening.

“It’s a family Christmas gathering,” said Sherlock, “why wouldn’t my brother be here? Be sensible, John.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then that you invited him, that you arranged all of this? You had me believed that it was all your mum’s idea.”

“I have my reasons. And I didn’t lie to you, it was indeed my mum’s idea. Partly.”

“What are you trying to do, Sherlock? Please tell me.”

“I’m trying to enjoy a nice time with my parents and my friends. Is that a crime? You have been with me for a long time now, John, surely you know the differences between a normal conduct and a crime.”

John laughed dangerously, “Knowing _you_ , Sherlock, this is hardly normal conduct, and yes, I’m sensing a crime.”

“Well, relax then. There will be no such thing under this roof. Mum strictly forbids bringing work into this house, least of all, a crime.”

John watched as his friend walked back to rejoin the dinning table. Mary sat beside Mrs Holmes and enjoyed the meal with polite smiles and sweet conversations with the elderly couple. Mr Holmes sat at the head of the table with Sherlock on one side and his wife on the other. John took his seat opposite Mary, beside Sherlock, and noticed the empty seat at the other end of the table. He looked a little bit too long at the empty plate that was set.

When the meal ended, it was well into evening. The air was cold and bitter outside, so a fire was started and all gathered in the sitting room, listening to Mrs Holmes tell stories of Sherlock’s mischief as a child. Mary laughed with delight at these stories, while Sherlock glared from his chair that situated at the far side of the room and far from the gathering group. Mr Holmes would chime in occasionally with a word or two, completing his wife’s story, and let out a soft chuckle and a bright smile after each story had ended.

John wavered in and out between the sitting room and the kitchen, saying that he would do the dishes, which he did all the while staring intently at the picture of Mycroft that sat on the shelf by the table. 

The door bell rang suddenly.

John’s chest was pounding despite himself.

Mrs Holmes gave an excited “Oohp! Must be Mikey” and answered it. 

John could hear low murmurs, and when Mrs Holmes came back with a tall figure in tow, his thoughts were sent into a rather complicated frenzy. The face that belonged to the tall figure was indeed familiar and was one that John had come to associate with sprains and broken bones… Bill Wiggins had a dazed look on his face and only when the young man saw Sherlock that his expression changed to that of a boy with deep reverence for his mentor. Sherlock introduced Wiggins as his “friend” to the bemusement of everyone, especially Mary who looked on with a suppressed smirk.

The group dispersed after ten o’clock. Mrs Holmes showed them to their rooms, with Bill Wiggins helping with the hauling of Sherlock and Mary’s luggage. The guest room was to be for Mary and John, while Sherlock would take his old room and Wiggins would be placed in the study, at Sherlock’s request, for there was a comfortable sofa.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mum,” Sherlock started, “Mary is experiencing irregular sleeping patterns and—” but was cut short by Mrs Holmes’s words of sympathy and understanding as well as quick deductions as to what her son was about to say: “Oh, dear! Yes, yes. You wouldn’t believe my strange experience with this one,” and she pointed to Sherlock himself, who rolled his eyes. “Kept me up at all hours and forced me to sleep all day long. Mr Holmes had moved into the library! Well, never mind that. John dear, why don’t you take Mycroft’s room?”

Mrs Holmes gave Mary a soft pat on her arm, wishes her and Sherlock good night, and led John further down the corridor to a room at the other end. When John was about to protest that Mycroft would want to spend the night in his own room, Mrs Holmes quickly said, “If I know my boy, and I sure know him well, he’ll spend tonight at that posh hotel in town. I’ll be sure to scold him when he arrives in the morning.”

John set down his bag and looked around. It was a very neat but peculiar room, more comfortable than personal. There were books on a couple of shelves, mostly fiction, and contrary to Mycroft’s keenness for a stately desk, there wasn’t one here. The room was facing the side garden of the house, a pleasant and warm space with the bed pushed right up against the wall and the windows.

“We bought this house a number of years back, it is our retirement home so to speak, but we couldn’t bear parting with the kids’ old things, so I kept them as much as I could and stored them in their rooms. How silly and nostalgic of me, but then again, aren’t all mothers like that? Never wanting their kids to grow up? Well, I kept most of Mikey’s childhood things here. I hope you don’t mind, John.”

“Not at all, Mrs Holmes,” answered John and smiled brightly at Mrs Holmes’s preference in calling Mycroft, “Mikey.”

“He’s always been the sensitive one. That is why he shut himself from people, going as far as to teach Sherlock the same thing. He thinks it’s a weakness to care and to love. And perhaps these are the words of a mother’s love for her own child but despite what people may think of him, Mycroft’s a good boy.”

“He is.”

“You both mean a lot to him.”

John’s head shot up too abruptly to his liking and found, displayed for a small fraction of a second, Mrs Holmes’s tender eyes and scrutinising look. If not for that look, John would have thought he had misheard. Her gaze changed, but John kept contact until she broke it with a gentle smile.

“Well, I should let you get some rest, dear.”

“Mrs Holmes?” John caught her elbow before she could leave. He inclined his head, almost apologetically but more of a polite nod of a promise. “Thank you.”

She smiled, pressed her hand against his cheek, and leaned in to kiss the other cheek.

“Good night, my dear John.”

John was left with the remnants of Mycroft’s past. He lay on the bed and stared the ceiling, feeling himself being engulfed by everything around him. He should wash up, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up from the bed. He turned off the lights, thinking that perhaps he would leave all the washing to the morning. He didn’t know how long time had passed when there came a sound of a car coming to a halt in the drive and headlights shown distinctively through the lace curtains of the room. John got up on his elbow, allowing him to simply peer easily out the window and to the scene below. 

Mycroft climbed down from the backseat and the lights from the interior of the car showed that same driver who had the front-row seat of their shameful display in that very same car. John watched Mycroft retrieve his luggage: an overnight bag and suit cover. The front door had opened to receive him, John knew by the flood of light below that welcomed Mycroft. There was some quiet murmurs and the door was then closed. John slowly and carefully walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs. In the sitting room, Mycroft was speaking lowly with his father, almost in hush whispers for fear of waking the sleepers above.

“Don’t be silly,” said Mr Holmes. “Just stay in Sherlock’s room. It’s only for one night.”

“Please, Dad, you know it will be a nightmare. Besides, I’ll join you all tomorrow morning for breakfast. The hotel is just a short journey away.”

“Your mother won’t like it.”

Mycroft made to protest but stopped short when he saw John standing in the darkness, looking at them. Mr Holmes turned as well to see the same image.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Mr Holmes smiled and rectified with a look of gratefulness. “Nonsense, old chap. I’m glad you’re still up. Maybe you can persuade my son to stay in his own house rather than at a hotel. He won’t listen to his own father.”

“I’ll sleep in Sherlock’s room,” John offered. “He won’t mind.”

“Ah, that’s settled then. Stay, son,” said Mr Holmes. Mycroft nodded solemnly. Mr Holmes patted his elbow gently and excused himself to bed. John stood where he was until the sound of Mr Holmes’s footsteps dissipated.

“I’ll move my things,” said John. Before he could leave however Mycroft caught his hand and held it within his. 

“John…”

“Let me help you with your bag,” said John quickly, changing the subject and becoming keenly aware of the growing heat between their clasped hands. He reached for Mycroft’s overnight luggage.

“I can manage.”

“C’mon, Mycroft, give it here.”

Mycroft permitted. Together, they ascended the steps, still hand in hand, and arrived at Mycroft’s bedroom. John put down Mycroft’s bag then quickly step away to grab his own. He was glad he hadn’t unpacked; he had saved himself the trouble of prolonging his stay. But when he began to utter a good night, his hand was snatched again and his bag fell onto the floor.

“Sherlock would be most annoyed if you should wake him up at this hour,” Mycroft said softly.

“I doubt that he’s already asleep. The bastard doesn’t sleep at all sometimes, you know that.”

“Nevertheless…”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I’m not suggesting anything… _sinister_ , John.”

John smiled, gave in too easily and willingly, and slumped down onto the bed. Mycroft followed, wedging his body onto the bed that was too small for two people.

“Aren’t you going to take off your coat and tie?” John asked with a little twinkle in his eyes. Mycroft manoeuvred with some difficulty and prompted John to snicker. The whole ridiculousness of everything that was happening to them was just too much, and they had to muffle their laughter. 

“We’ll be alright, will we?” John asked when the mirth of their hearts die down

“Yes, John, we will.”

“Will you… No. Never mind. I’m asking too much… I… I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologise. The fault has always been mine.”

“Mycroft, you did nothing wrong.”

“I have always known, John.”

John didn’t press what Mycroft meant by it. In his heart, however, he knew exactly what he meant. It didn’t anger him in the least. In fact, it had strengthened his resolve about Mycroft’s care consideration for him. He turned his body around and in the darkness he could see the silhouette of Mycroft’s body and the outline of his nose. He reached out but quickly pulled back. He didn’t know if Mycroft had seen his hand, hovering out in the empty darkness. But soon, he closed his eyes and his mind to it all and slept.

John awoke to his body being pressed up against Mycroft’s front and Mycroft’s lips so very close to his forehead as though those lips had been kissing his forehead in the night. Their arms had found each other It was natural that those limbs should search for one another. Their legs tangled under the duvet. The bed was too small for them, but cozy all the same. It was dawn and cool. John pulled the duvet up a little bit more and tried not to disrupt Mycroft’s sleep. They had found themselves in each other’s embrace so many times—countless times—before. The comfort they provided for one another could never be matched by anyone else. John knew this before he had acknowledge it. John stared at the sleeping face in front of him. New stress lines had appeared on Mycroft’s forehead and weariness was prominent under his eyes.

Hours later, John watched Mycroft wake, watched him dressed, and watched him leave the room. No one had yet stirred from their beds save for Mrs Holmes, who were busy in the kitchen. Mycroft sat at the kitchen table with his laptop and proceeded to work until afternoon. John took a morning walk around the premise, and despite the cool and bitter air, he walked far and back. By the time he returned to the house, it was lunchtime and they sat, nibbling on small portions of sandwiches that Mrs Holmes had ensured would not spoil their appetite for her Christmas feast. John talked to Mr Holmes, to Sherlock, read, passing the time until he was ready.

He approached Mary, ignored her unpleasant remark, the jab at his own silence, and proceeded to tell her exactly his true feelings. He truly wanted to make it work despite Mary’s past. It was true, he didn’t even touch that USB drive, didn’t care in the least who she was, but also knew who she was and he wasn’t stupid to think that she couldn’t committed atrocious acts which he was certain she had done. He lived with danger, attracted danger, and it served him right to be married to danger. He smiled ruefully as he hugged his wife and saw the Holmes brothers walking outside with clouds of smoke lingering over them. He wondered to himself and asked why it felt like a beginning of the end. 


End file.
